


My Heart is a Refugee

by earthinmywindow



Series: Dream Runners [4]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: F/M, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 12:59:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1107116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earthinmywindow/pseuds/earthinmywindow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Runaways Reiner, Annie, and Bertolt have found a home for now. Living off money made in a local fight club, the trio all have their own distractions. Bertolt reads (and drinks). Annie, the primary breadwinner, dates men and tosses them aside. And Reiner secretly searches for the biological father he never knew. What he finds, however, leads him towards finally accepting his weaknesses and who he really is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Heart is a Refugee

**Author's Note:**

> Part 4 of 8 and it is a long one! Hopefully in a good way. Thank you so much to those who have read the previous installments of this series and left comments and kudos. It really means so much to me. Even if this series doesn't get a lot of attention, though, I am going to keep at it. Thank you for the support and I hope you like this new part. I never know whether to rate a fic M or E. Please let me know if you think I should change it.

“I’m not gonna lie to you, Reiner, I’m a little bit nervous.” It came through in his voice, that breathy anticipation and the faint trembling in the back of the throat. “I never thought I could have these kinds of feelings for a man.” A pause. “But then I realized... I’ve had them for you all along.”  
  
Reiner cupped a stubbled cheek in the curve of his fingers, ghosted the pad of his thumb over the plush swell of a perfectly shaped lower lip. “You have no idea how happy it makes me to hear you say that,” he whispered as his heart drummed an exultation song against his breastbone. “I love you, Bertolt. I love you so much. And I promise not to hurt you. Ever. Emotionally. Or physically.”  
  
“Reiner—” Bertolt panted the name, dripping unconcealed need like pheromones, and the surge of arousal it sent through Reiner was so intense it made him shudder. He’d experienced lust before, but never like this. This was more than lust; this was a black pit of hunger at the center of his being, aching to be sated.  
  
“What do you want, Bertolt?” He heard his own voice drag out like the edge of a serrated knife.  
  
As he gazed down at Bertolt, prostrate and prone on the bed beneath him, a silent prayer took shape inside his brain: _Please, please say you want what I want._  
  
Answering his unspoken prayer, long, tapered fingers reached up, hooked around the back of his neck, teasing the short, fine hairs at the nape, and guided him closer until his face was just centimeters away from those luminous green eyes. They were like two emerald cabochons set deep in the endlessly fascinating sculpture that was Bertolt Hoover’s face.  
  
“I want _you_ , Reiner,” Bertolt said. The words were hot and moist and he almost sounded like he was in pain as he spoke them. “I want all of you. _So_ badly.” He tugged Reiner closer, joining their mouths.  
  
For Reiner, it felt as if there was a long, long fuse inside of him that had been lit years ago, maybe even the day he first met Bertolt, and now, at last, it had burned down to nothing and ignited what he’d been holding back for all this time. He kissed back with a devouring fervor, sucking the pliant flesh of Bertolt’s lower lip, teasing it between his teeth, and was rewarded with the most erotic noises he’d ever heard: throaty little moans and tremulous whimpers of desire he’d had no idea his best friend was capable of producing. Most exhilarating by far, though, was his name, which Bertolt sighed over and over, every time their lips separated.  
  
“Reiner! Reiner!” He made it sound like a song and then he crushed his mouth to Reiner’s again, as if kissing him were the oxygen he couldn’t live without for more than a few seconds.  
  
Reiner’s hands braced the bed on either side of Bertolt’s body while Bertolt’s hands roamed over Reiner’s shoulders, nimble fingers gripping at muscles, stroking calm nerves into sparkling life as they traveled down his back. It came to Reiner unbidden to thrust his hips against Bertolt’s, a slow, shallow rocking at first and then growing more forceful as Bertolt met and matched his gyrations. They continued to kiss, getting sloppier now—exploring the wet heat of each other’s mouths, tongue sliding against tongue, teeth clicking on teeth—as their hips and bellies moved in syncopated rhythm, the intimation of a deeper joining to come.  
  
Reiner was acutely aware of the tightness in his pants, his erection painfully hard and already releasing the first preliminary squirts of fluid. Bertolt’s hands were under his shirt now, tugging it upwards. Eager to speed things along, Reiner finished the job for him, pulling the shirt over his head and tossing it to the floor. Then he removed Bertolt’s shirt and added it to the pile. Now that beautiful, slender torso was laid out bare in front of him, skin smooth as silk—gold with olive undertones—and two small brown nipples, tightened to beads from the sudden cold or from arousal.  
  
“Your body is gorgeous,” Reiner husked and then swooped down to kiss the soft v of flesh beneath Bertolt’s jaw, inhaling deeply to capture the fragrance of herbal soap and sweat which clung to his skin.  
  
He dripped a chain of wet kisses down the column of Bertolt’s neck, into the scooped out hollows above his collarbones and over the breastbone that shielded his fiercely hammering heart. He took one nipple into his mouth and laved it with the tip of his tongue, suckled it like a babe until Bertolt let out a ruined whine and then moved to the other one. From there he kissed down the flat, hard plane of Bertolt’s stomach, the delicate cup of navel, and the trail of dark hair below that grew thicker just before it disappeared, tantalizingly, under the waist of his jeans. Reiner drew back just enough to take in the full picture of this area, how the valleys formed by Bertolt’s sharp hips suggested a v-shape with it’s apex between the thighs, on that arrowing rise of denim.  
  
Reiner swallowed hard, his throat dry and swollen, and asked, “Can I?” His eyes sought Bertolt’s, desperate for approval.  
  
“Please.” One word stretched into a long groan, not simply granting permission, but pleading for physical contact. Bertolt was as desperate as Reiner, his green eyes gone liquid as he begged for release.  
  
With hands steadier than he ever expected them to be in this situation—though, to be fair, he’d never actually expected to be in this situation, only fantasized—Reiner undid the button of Bertolt’s jeans and pulled down the zipper. His knuckles brushed over the thick ridge of Bertolt’s strapped down erection and sent another aching pulse of blood to his own. He opened the denim flies and the length of it pushed outward and upward, stretching the heather gray cotton of a pair of boxer-briefs. There was a wet patch where the head of Bertolt’s penis strained against the fabric, leaking juices in anticipation of Reiner’s touch. He wanted to touch so badly, wanted to bury his face at the base of it and breathe in the scent of pure sex coming off of it.  
  
This was really happening.  
  
As if to reassure him of that fact, Bertolt reached a hand to Reiner’s cheek and caressed it with so much love that Reiner feared his heart might stop from having finally had its greatest desire fulfilled. “Reiner,” Bertolt whispered, and then repeated his entreaty: “Please.”  
  
Reiner seized Bertolt’s mouth in one more rapturous kiss before returning his attention to the boxer-briefs, the last layer to surmount. Experimentally, he stroked the shaft through the fabric with his fingertips, causing it to twitch and Bertolt to smother a moan in his throat, then he hooked his fingers under the elastic waistband, pulled down slowly to savor the reveal, and woke up.  
  
He woke up on a wave of euphoria that quickly dissolved into shame. When he pulled back the flap of his sleeping bag, his nostrils flared at the unmistakable musky smell of ejaculate—he’d had a wet dream. Great. Just great. At eighteen, Reiner couldn’t help thinking that he was getting too old for his body to be pulling this adolescent bullshit on him.  
  
Weak yellow light filtered into the room through a pair of high, greasy windows. So it was morning already.  
  
Fortunately, the other two were still asleep. Annie was curled towards the wall at the far end of the room and Bertolt was sprawled out, spread-eagle, in the middle, which was probably why Annie had scooted so far away. Faced with the ridiculously unsexy reality of the object of his pining, Reiner had to laugh—internally—at the wild embellishments of his subconscious. Just to drive the point home, Bertolt let out a grunt in his sleep that was downright porcine and Reiner was forced to cover his own mouth to keep from laughing externally. No sense in dawdling, though, since he had to get himself cleaned off before either of them woke.  
  
Sighing, he stood up—a somewhat awkward maneuver since his boxers were sticking uncomfortably to his groin—and headed to the bathroom.  
  
Their current home was a tiny, one-room apartment—more like a shoebox, really—tucked into the corner of an empty warehouse in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. It had the distinct feel of having once been an office, presumably where the foreman or supervisor or whoever oversaw the activities of the warehouse had been stationed back when the warehouse was in sanctioned use. But now it was an apartment; the big glass window that looked out on the warehouse floor had been painted over with many layers of thick acrylic and a sliver of a bathroom had been installed, complete with a shower so narrow it barely allowed for the extension of elbows as a part of one’s cleansing routine.  
  
Reiner brought a fresh pair of underwear and his clothes for the day in with him, flicked on the light, and shut the door behind him. In the oval mirror above the sink he saw that his pillowcase had left a complicated web of crease marks on his face. The black eye was looking a lot better, though, smaller and faded to yellow-green-brown color reminiscent of goose shit. What mattered was that he’d won that fight and they’d been able to tuck a few more bucks into their safe. Nowhere near the kind of money Annie brought in, of course, but every little bit counted.  
  
Getting back on task, he slid his boxers down and off and wadded them into a ball, which he would hastily shove to the bottom of his dirty laundry sack as soon as he stepped out of the bathroom. Then he wetted a washcloth and wiped off his flaccid member. It irritated him just thinking about how he had no control over this function of his body. This was not a first-time occurrence—much to his chagrin, it had been happening with increased frequency ever since he’d started sleeping in such close proximity to his best friend every night.  
  
 _My best friend. He’s my best friend._ He thought the words to himself like a mantra at times like these, as if repeating it enough times inside his head would purge him of his hopeless desire. The first time he dreamed about Bertolt—that is, dreamed about him in a context that transgressed the boundaries of mere friendship—he’d been twelve years old and it had disturbed him so horribly he could barely talk to Bertolt for three days. Up until then, Reiner had still been nurturing the idea that his attraction was somehow a conflation of his protective feelings for Bertolt, since Bertolt was definitely the sort of person who elicited protective feelings, and that it would pass when he hit puberty and started falling for girls left and right. But that never happened.  
  
Reiner had never thought of himself as gay and even now he was reluctant to embrace a label that was so frighteningly _other_ to him. There were rules for being gay, right? Things you had to know, like if you were a top or a bottom or a twink or a bear. You went to different clubs and marched in different parades and hung out with different people, gay people. Everything Reiner saw in the media told him that being gay was a lifestyle and he didn’t want a lifestyle, whatever that even meant. He liked sports and cars and doing hard labor with his bare hands and didn’t give a shit—or know shit—about fashion or Broadway musicals or Lady Gaga.  
  
But he could no longer deny the fact that he was completely, humiliatingly in love with his male best friend.  
  
Bertolt was not gay, and though his painfully-obvious-to-everyone-except-her infatuation with Annie did not rule out the possibility that he was bisexual, Reiner would not hang any hopes on that possibility. Besides that, telling Bertolt how he felt could potentially devastate the dynamic the three of them had and right now their survival depended on each other. They needed to be a united front, bonds thicker than blood, without the messiness of sex or romance. His one consolation was that he knew Bertolt, for the very same reasons, would never confess to Annie. It was their unspoken deal, unspoken because it was unspeakable.

Still, sometimes—and always with a lancing pang of guilt—Reiner imagined scenarios where Bertolt did confess to Annie, was gently but definitively rejected, and sought comfort in the strong arms of his best friend.  
  
When Reiner emerged from the bathroom, in jeans and a long-sleeved white shirt, Bertolt and Annie were both awake, though only the latter appeared to be fully alert. Bertolt was sitting up, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands and muttering quietly to himself, something about waffles. His hair was a dark nest of spiky cowlicks and his undershirt was on backwards and falling off one shoulder. Maybe not sexy, but Reiner couldn’t help thinking he was adorable.  
  
“Morning, Annie,” said Reiner as he stealthily buried his soiled shorts. “Morning, Bertl. You feeling okay?”  
  
Annie, who was rummaging through her box of clean clothes, didn’t look up as she said, “He’s fine, just a little bit hungover.”  
  
Reiner had already figured as much since Bertolt had gone out to Paddy’s last night, a filthy dive of a pub that notoriously didn’t card, and had come home after midnight, woozy and subdued and reeking of beer. It didn’t happen often enough to be considered habitual, but Reiner still worried, mostly about Bertolt getting lost or hurt or involved in an altercation while he was inebriated. He felt like he wasn’t living up to his promise to protect Bertolt, but he had a project of his own that he was working on and he couldn’t always be watching over his friend.  
  
He worried about Annie, too. Her new hobby was boys, though some of her dates were obviously men over the age of eighteen who had no business going out with a not-yet-legal girl. Reiner had already given her every big brother lecture he could think of, worded as non-judgmentally as he could make them: self-defense, self-respect, and even, with red-faced embarrassment, the critical importance of condoms. She had listened to him, albeit while wearing an expression that said none of this was knowledge she didn’t already possess. It was out of Reiner’s hands now.  
  
The best that could be said of Annie’s numerous affairs was that they appeared to be almost exclusively physical relationships and none of them lasted more than a week or two, ending without drama or repercussion. This was little consolation to Bertolt, however, who got mopey and sullen whenever she went out with a new guy and it took the combined efforts of Reiner and Jim Beam to jolly him out of it. And if Annie was out late, Bertolt would stay up, watching the door like a lonely puppy.  
  
“I’m not hungover,” Bertolt said, though not convincingly. “Just tired. Need a quick shower and maybe some coffee.” He wobbled as he rose to standing, like a newborn giraffe, but before he started towards the bathroom, there was a knock on the door.  
  
“I’ll take care of it,” Reiner said. There was only one person who ever came to their door and he only came for one purpose; Reiner hadn’t realized that it was the third Saturday of the month already. He opened the door and was greeted with a pleasant smile. “Hey there, Armin,” he said.  
  
“Good morning, tenants,” Armin said. He was dressed in khaki pants and a green sweater over a collared shirt and was wearing his glasses, which meant that he was in business mode. “Do you have this month’s rent?”  
  
“You don’t waste any time, do you?” Reiner said. "Yeah, I’ve got it. Just give me a second.”  
  
Technically, it was Armin’s grandfather, Boris Arlert, who owned the warehouse and the little apartment therein, but the man was old and had difficulty keeping up with his various properties—he apparently had an impressive collection of real estate—and so had bequeathed this one to young Armin to use as he saw fit. It was supposed to teach him responsibility or something.  
  
Reiner had to wonder if gramps had any idea of what his grandson was capable of orchestrating.  
  
With his slight build and bland, babyish face framed by a blond pageboy haircut, nineteen-year old Armin Arlert was not somebody you would ever suspect of operating the most lucrative fight club in all of Philadelphia. He was a college student, pre-law, at one of the universities in the city—Drexel or University of Pennsylvania, Reiner couldn’t remember which—but he still found the time to coordinate fight nights on Fridays and Saturdays. His two partners, Eren Yeager and Mikasa Ackerman, handled a lot of the physical details—collecting money, keeping order in the arena, managing security and such—but it was Armin who crunched the numbers, ran the odds, assigned the fights for the most excitement and most profit each week.  
  
Armin also collected their rent each month. When asked if it wouldn’t be easier just to deduct it from their fight winnings, he’d cheerfully explained that he preferred to keep the two businesses he was running out of this warehouse as separate as possible. He was remarkably shrewd, probably one of those prodigies who could multiply random seven-digit numbers instantly in his head, but he also had a serenely ruthless quality reminiscent of a mafia don’s protege and Reiner had made a mental note never to get on his bad side.  
  
“Here you go,” Reiner said, returning to the door with a tight roll of bills.  
  
Placid smile still in place, Armin took the roll and slid it into his pocket. “Thank you very much.”  
  
“Aren’t you even going to count it?” Reiner asked.  
  
“No need,” answered Armin. “We’ve been doing this long enough that I trust you. What’s it been now, seven months?”  
  
“Eight,” said Reiner. He was pretty sure that Armin knew, down to hour, exactly how long the trio had been in this apartment, but was trying to sound laid back.  
  
“Hey Armin,” Bertolt called from inside the apartment. “We still on for the library today?”  
  
“Two o’clock,” Armin called back, craning sideways to look past Reiner’s shoulder. Then he returned his attention where it was before. “Okay then. That takes care of January. Always a pleasure doing business with you. I’ll see you three at the arena tonight. Have a nice day.”  
  
Once Armin had left and the sound of his footfalls on the metal stairs receded, Reiner turned to Bertolt with a raised eyebrow. “You know I don’t have any problems with you being friends with our landlord, Bertl, but if you keep hanging out in the library somebody is going to recognize you. Those places are hubs of informed citizenry.”  
  
“I’m not too worried about it,” Bertolt said, shrugging. “To be honest, I feel like if anyone was going to recognize us and turn us in around here, it would have happened by now. I’m pretty sure Armin knows who we are, but most people don’t have a clue about kids who’ve gone missing from other states and they aren’t on the lookout for them.”  
  
Reiner frowned even though he didn’t disagree. During those first few months after fleeing home they’d been paranoid and constantly on edge and had carried out every movement, every action with extreme caution. They checked newspapers and news channels and news websites every day to see if anyone was looking for them. Someone was, of course: Mrs. Leonhart and Arlington County authorities. But despite the presence of a dead body, the story stayed more-or-less local, and after living in this great big anonymous city for a while, they all relaxed into a provisional sense of security. If anybody did recognize them, they didn’t care enough to turn them in to the police.  
  
“Seriously, Reiner, you don’t need to worry about me. Even if somebody thought they knew me, Armin would lie me out of it.”  
  
This additional reassurance sent a twinge of irritation through Reiner. It bothered him more than it should that Bertolt so effortlessly put his faith in Armin, that Bertolt had so effortlessly become friends with Armin. Reiner was the outgoing one in their group, the one who did all the talking. Or at least he always had been in the past. Now Bertolt had Armin and Annie had her boys—men, whatever—and all Reiner had was the two of them. And his mission, which he intended to bring to culmination today.  
  
“Just be careful,” he told Bertolt. “Always be careful.”  
  
In response, Bertolt treated him to one of his rare smiles, droopy eyed and faintly melancholic. “I always am. But thanks for having my back.”  
  
A warm, melting sensation filled Reiner’s belly and he hoped there was no evidence of it on his face.  
  
After Bertolt had slunk away to take his shower, Reiner turned to his sister. “So Annie, do you have a good feeling about tonight?”  
  
“As good as I ever have.” She was tying the laces of her sneakers, gearing up to go for a run, and kept her answer brusque to indicate that she wasn’t in the mood to chit-chat.  
  
Reiner wasn’t really bothered; Annie was always especially terse on days when she would fight Mikasa. But it was the Annie versus Mikasa fights that brought in the most money—whether it was due to the staggering talent of both women, which put all the other fighters to shame, or the supposed eroticism of two attractive young females beating each other bloody, he did not know—so Reiner let her adopt whatever attitude she wanted.  
  
It was also why he didn’t give her a harder time about all her gentlemen callers, though lord knows he wanted to. He could sense that the situation with her love life was not right somehow, but he didn’t know what he would do even if he felt like he was at liberty to do anything. Annie needed Dad. Dad would know what to do.  
  
Annie was the primary breadwinner, but Reiner fought, too. He enjoyed it, especially when his opponent was Eren Yeager, who was physically unimposing compared to Reiner but tenacious as a mongoose and always put up a hell of a good fight.

Sometimes Bertolt fought. He was extremely reluctant at first, which was understandable considering how traumatized and self-loathing he’d been over the act of aggression that drove them here, but Reiner and Annie had convinced him that it might actually help him to have a structured outlet for his anger.  
  
As the only one with any training in martial arts, Annie had taken up the task of coaching the boys, who learned quickly, and before long they were winning more matches than losing.  
  
All the money they earned was pooled together and used for their mutual well-being. They were doing surprisingly well for runaways—the apartment wasn’t much, but they now owned a mini-fridge, a hotplate, a coffee maker, and a space heater, which had proved its worth ten times over when winter struck. They also had satisfactory wardrobes and though they ate simply, it was good, nourishing stuff.  
  
The place was starting to feel oddly like home and that wasn’t necessarily a good thing. How long could they really live like this?  
  
“I’m going out,” Reiner said to Annie, wiggling his feet into his shoes, which he didn’t have to tie because he hadn’t bothered to untie them the last time he’d kicked them off. Leaving while Bertolt was still in the shower was probably for the best; Reiner certainly didn’t need to see him emerge all flushed and dewy.  
  
“Whatever,” Annie replied, clearly not giving a shit.  
  
Reiner put on his winter jacket and shouldered his backpack, grateful that Annie’s eyes were closed as she stretched so she wouldn’t notice and ask him what was inside it. She probably knew, though, or at least suspected.  
  
—  
  
It was a bright, cloudless day, but bitterly cold. Reiner’s breaths came out as thin white streamers in the clear air. Last week’s thick fairytale frosting of snow was now chunky, grit-flecked heaps of the stuff lining the streets and sidewalks and rock salt crunched underfoot with each step. January in Philadelphia really wasn’t all that different from January in the D.C. area.  
  
Reiner was stopped at a street corner, waiting for the sign to change so he could cross, when he realized that he didn’t actually know if he was going the right way. He’d taken a city bus to the general vicinity of his destination and just started walking, as if in a trance. Time to consult the directions he’d written down.  
  
From his backpack he retrieved the spiral notebook he’d been using for the sole purpose of this project. Half of the pages were already filled up with research, most of which he had—rather hypocritically, in light of his warning to Bertolt—carried out in various libraries. It felt heavier in his hands now than paper and ink and cardboard ought to, weighted with the diligence it represented. How many secret stolen hours had gone into this notebook?  
  
He hadn’t bothered to give the project a name and had left the outside of the notebook unmarked—the cover was an unprepossessing marbleized red. On the inside, this simple notebook was a compendium of all the information he’d been able to find about every male acquaintance mentioned in Vanessa Braun’s journal. Admittedly, there were a lot of wasted efforts logged in these pages. Most of the men were described too vaguely to be positively identified and of those that could be identified, the majority had been quickly or slowly eliminated as candidates for his biological father.  
  
But one name had proved an unexpectedly fruitful lead and pursuing it became the driving force behind Reiner’s search. Each new piece of data Reiner uncovered supported the idea that this man had once had a close relationship with Vanessa Braun, which may very well have been romantic and may very well have extended to the time period when he was conceived. Reiner had spent the last several months doggedly hunting for this man’s current whereabouts, to no avail. Two weeks ago, he’d been just about ready to give up his search when he stumbled upon the name in a local newspaper that was taped up on the inside of a glass window on an abandoned storefront. It was the break he’d been waiting for and it reignited his quest. All it took was a few quick computer searches to turn up the man’s last known address. Wouldn’t you know it? He was right here in Philadelphia.  
  
It had to be fate. Reiner was not averse to spiritualism as Annie was—he still believed, resolutely, that Bertolt had been brought to them as part of some grand metaphysical scheme—so it didn't take too big a leap for him to land on that conclusion. Every event in his life up to now suddenly felt like a deliberate act of the Universe, plotting on par with a James Bond villain, with all of the involved parties conspiring—wittingly or not—to get him to this address in this city on this day. And if the Universe had gone to so much trouble just to bring Reiner to where this man was then this man had to be Reiner’s father. He just had to.  
  
Today Reiner was going to meet his biological father.  
  
The man’s name and address were circled and underlined in red pen. Below that, Reiner had written down walking instructions to get to the address from the bus stop, but looking at it now he wished he’d just brought a map—despite living in this city for eight months, he still didn’t have a firm grasp on the layout.  
  
While poring over his notes he missed the brief window to cross and had to keep waiting. His stomach felt like a sloshing bowl of warm acid—he’d stopped at a Starbucks for coffee but was too nervous to eat any food with his grande latte and now he regretted the decision. The light changed again and he crossed the street. Turns out he had been going the right way. It was closer than he’d thought and that made him tense. He’d been counting on a nice long walk to settle his caffeinated nerves, and also to come up with what he was going to say to the man.  
  
 _Crap_. What _was_ he going to say? It’s not like he could ask the guy: _“Hey, do you remember a woman named Vanessa Braun? By any chance, did you have sexual intercourse with her about nineteen years ago?”_ Or worse: _“Surprise, I’m that bastard you never knew about!”_  
  
But maybe the guy _did_ know about him. Maybe he’d wanted nothing to do with Vanessa and her child.  
  
 _Shit_. Reiner thought he was prepared for this, but clearly he wasn’t. How could he even mention his real name, or Mom’s, without it somehow leading back to Arlington and running away and Roger Bailey? Maybe he should just head back to the warehouse for today, prepare for tonight’s fight, regroup and come up with a solid plan for meeting his father next Saturday instead. Better to wait for his black eye to disappear completely, anyways, avoid that whole line of questioning. Yes, that was much more sensible.  
  
Reiner had continued walking as he contemplated all of this but when he made up his mind to turn back he stopped. And looked up. He was standing right in front of the address he’d written down.  
  
It was a townhouse, neat and rectangular and fronted with red bricks. There was a cement stoop with five steps leading up to the door, which was painted a high glossy white, as were the posts and lintel around it, and the frames around the four identical windows. Nothing about the exterior of this house gave any clues as to the character of its inhabitant—no potted plant on the steps, no cat in the window nestled between the glass and the venetian blinds, not even a welcome mat in front of the door.  
  
Reiner’s nausea had settled into a dull, heavy ache on the floor of his stomach, like he’d swallowed a cannonball or done too many sit-ups. He had to make a decision. He thought about a cartoon he’d once seen—it might have been an old episode of _The Simpsons_ —where a character was rowing down a river that split into two and had to choose one side or the other, and the current was strong so there could be no going back. In the end, Homer—or whoever it was—naturally wound up choosing the side that was laden with whitewater rapids and eventually carried him out to sea, because that was funnier. Reiner, of course, was not a cartoon character, but he knew whatever he chose to do now would not be reversible. If he left and went back to the warehouse, he would never work up the nerve to come to this house again. But if he walked up to that door and rang the bell, he couldn’t undo meeting the man who answered.  
  
He stood there on the sidewalk staring at the red brick townhouse for a good five minutes before deciding that he would rather suffer consequences than cowardice. After all, what was the worst that could happen? His biological father would reject him? Big deal, Reiner had already lived eighteen and a half years without the guy. He was pre-rejected.  
  
And what if the worst didn’t happen? What if the man who lived in this house was overjoyed by the return of his long-lost son and took Reiner into his arms, embracing him with tears in his eyes? Maybe his father would become somebody he could trust and talk to about his problems, his unsettling dreams and his feelings for his best friend.  
  
Reiner tried to imagine it, having a heart-to-heart with this man he’d never met. _“I could really use some fatherly advice. I think I might be gay.”_ And his father would respond with an understanding smile and say something like, _“I imagine that must be tough for you, Reiner, but it’s going to be okay. Some people might try to make you feel bad about the way you are and who you love, but I will always stand behind you. You are my son and I love you no matter what.”_  
  
When Reiner pictured this, though, the man he was talking to was August Leonhart, no matter how hard he tried to think of somebody else. It didn’t help that he’d never been able to find a photo of the man he was searching for and as such had no idea what he looked like. It also didn’t help that the conversation he longed for was exactly the one he knew August Leonhart—Dad—would have had with him. But the man who’d raised him was gone forever.  
  
Okay, now he really needed to unstick his feet from the pavement, because the longer he just stood here, the more doubt crept in to replace his resolve. He took a deep breath and then climbed the five steps up to the door and pressed the button for the bell. Reiner listened to the chime, a melodic _DING-dong_ , and waited for the sounds of approaching feet.  
  
But none came.  
  
It hadn’t occurred to him that the man might not be home. He waited, thinking the lyrics of _Happy Birthday_ —which he remembered was the amount of time you should take to wash your hands, though that had nothing to do with this situation—and rang the bell again. And waited again.  
  
He was already turned around to leave, frankly feeling more relief than disappointment, when he heard a voice inside the house. “Hang on! I’m coming!” It was a male voice, but it sounded young.  
  
Reiner froze in place as the white door swung inward and a man appeared, framed in the dim, buttery light from the house. He was indeed young, early twenties tops, far too young to be Reiner’s father. But maybe, could he be a half-brother? Another possibility Reiner hadn’t even thought about. His heartbeat was up in his throat.  
  
“Hello?” the young man said. “Can I help you?” He didn’t bear much resemblance to Reiner. Actually, he looked a bit like Bertolt—tall with green eyes, and the same dark hair, like Turkish coffee. But he was stockier than Bertolt, his skin paler, his face rounder, his nose shorter and blunter. He was attractive, though, and had an easy smile that made Reiner feel warm in his belly  
  
“Uh, hi,” Reiner said and was stunned by how stupid he sounded. “I’m looking for a man. A man who lives here. Hannes. His name is Friedrich Hannes. Is he your dad? Is he... even here?”  
  
The young man’s brow furrowed, his mouth—nicely shaped—puckered in thought. “Sorry, I think you must have the wrong address. Nobody named Hannes here. It’s just me and my older brother. To be quite honest, I don’t think there’s anyone on this block with the last name Hannes.”  
  
“Oh,” said Reiner. He wanted to slink away like an alley cat, or just disappear. How had he gotten it wrong? He felt like an idiot even though he knew people got addresses wrong all the time.  
  
“We just moved here about six months ago, though,” said the attractive man. “This Hannes guy could have lived here before that. I hope it’s not an emergency.”  
  
Reiner scratched the back of his neck—it was something that Bertolt often did when he was nervous—and said, “No. It’s no big deal. I’ll just be on my way. Sorry to have disturbed you.”  
  
The man gave him a hard, scrutinizing look that made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. “Wait a minute, don’t I know you?”  
  
The question hit Reiner like a punch in the face and paralyzed him. Busted. They were so busted. So this was the Universe’s fucked-up plan all along, to bring Reiner all the way to this address, not to meet his father, but to at last be recognized as the runaway he was by this good looking stranger. His thoughts flew to Bertolt, to the crime, to the charges and the trial and the sentence that awaited him. Reiner couldn’t let him be found; he’d have to say they’d split up. Now was the time for quick thinking and his brain had gone blank, like a dead-air test pattern from the days before 24-hour television.  
  
The man was still inspecting him.  
  
“Look...” Reiner began, hoping he could ad-lib a believable story without a functioning brain, but the young man interrupted.  
  
“Oh I know! You fight at Warehouse 104, don’t you?”  
  
Reiner blinked dumbly for a second before responding. “What? Well yeah...”  
  
A wide grin spread on the young man’s face. He stepped out onto the porch and did a little bouncy hop-dance when his bare feet touched the chilled pavement, mumbling amusedly to himself: “Oh shit it’s cold!” He had on plaid flannel pajama pants and a green henley shirt made out of that waffly textured fabric, but that was it. The top buttons of his shirt were undone—exposing, Reiner noticed, a pleasant glimpse of his collarbones—yet he seemed perfectly happy to be outside. And, bewilderingly, happy to see Reiner.  
  
“I knew it! I’ve been going to watch the fights since, uh, middle of October, I think. I still haven’t decided if I want to give it a try myself—looks pretty brutal—but I love to watch. And make an occasional bet. Ha! Would you believe I’ve bet on you? You’re pretty good.”  
  
“Uh, thanks,” said Reiner.  
  
“I should be thanking you. You made me fifty bucks last week. I’m Marcel, by the way.” The young man wrinkled his nose. “Nobody calls me that, though, because it’s really fucking dorky. Call me Berwick.” He stuck out a large hand for Reiner to shake.  
  
“Reiner,” he said as he shook the proffered hand. Now that the adrenaline burst from that split-second of panic had subsided, he felt more relaxed and amiable, closer to his usual self, but with a vague lingering sense of exhilaration. “I’m Reiner. It’s nice to meet you, Berwick.”  
  
“Nice to meet you, too.” Berwick had a dry, firm handshake and spoke in a smooth baritone. “So are you going to be fighting tonight, Reiner?”  
  
Puffing his chest out, not _too_ proudly, Reiner replied, “Yep, sure will.”  
  
“Cool,” said Berwick. “I was thinking of skipping tonight, but now I think I’ll have to go and watch you. You’re one of my favorites. Maybe afterwards we can get coffee, or a drink, or some ice for your knuckles.”  
  
This made Reiner laugh. “Sounds cool to me. Hey, but if we’re going to be friends I’d better go squeeze in a little more training before my fight so I don’t make an ass of myself and lose your respect.”  
  
Now Berwick laughed, a rich, bubbly chuckle compared to Reiner’s coarse bark. “Okay man, I’ll see you in the arena tonight.” A large black and white cat chose this moment to stalk sinuously out from the cracked door and Berwick immediately scooped it up, causing it to emit a low, annoyed whine. “Nice try, Atlas.” Reiner saw this as his cue to get going, but Berwick looked up and addressed him one more time. “Hey Reiner?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“I’ll be rooting for you.”  
  
Reiner walked all the way back to the bus stop before remembering why he’d gone to that house in the first place, the sort of dull epiphany that was traditionally accompanied by a slow drawl of, “Oh yeah.” That’s right, he went there to meet Friedrich Hannes, the man he thought might be his father. No, not _thought_ , not _might_ —he’d been certain about it. Fifteen minutes ago, that man _was_ Reiner’s biological father and nothing short of a blood test would have convinced him otherwise. But thinking about it now, the possibility seemed so remote that he almost laughed at himself out loud. Hannes was just some guy Mom had known when she was in high school, probably nothing more than a friend, and that was years before she’d had Reiner. And it might not have even been the same guy he’d been tracking; Hannes wasn’t a common name, but it wasn’t that unique.  
  
It felt like he’d just come down off a powerful drug high—or rather, it was how he imagined it felt like to come down off a powerful drug high, since he’d never done anything more potent than pot. Now that fog had lifted, the whole father-finding expedition had a frenzied, irrational flavor, like the schizophrenic newspaper clipping of Russell Crowe’s character’s in _A Beautiful Mind_.  
  
Berwick—was that his last name? middle?—seemed like an interesting guy, though. It felt like years since Reiner had engaged in a meaningful conversation with anyone besides Bertolt or Annie. Really it had only been months, but that was still far too long for an extrovert like him and he spent the rest of the trip back to the warehouse thinking about what he and Berwick might talk about when they hung out tonight.  
  
—  
  
Between Sunday morning and Friday afternoon, the warehouse—Warehouse 104 everyone called it—truly was abandoned. Cavernous and bare and braced with columns, it reminded Reiner of an underground crypt beneath a medieval stronghold, like a set piece from some urban-industrial parody of _Game of Thrones_. But on Friday and Saturday nights, it was transformed into a gladiatorial arena. The troika of Armin Arlert, Mikasa Ackerman, and Eren Yeager arrived early in the evening—six or seven—to initiate the metamorphosis and Reiner and Bertolt typically volunteered to help. Occasionally Annie would pitch in, too, but such instances were rare as she preferred to spend her pre-fight hours reading or meditating or napping back in the apartment.  
  
As it happened, tonight Annie was down in the warehouse during the setup period, though her actual contribution of labor was marginal to non-existent. Under the weak guise of loitering apathetically, she was really there to observe Mikasa—and also, Reiner suspected, Eren, but that was a secondary purpose. She was assessing her opponent, as her opponent was assessing her, the two of them deciphering minute cues that might hint at what to expect later in the night when they went toe to toe. Annie had explained this to Reiner once, after the first time he’d noticed the behavior and asked her about it. He still didn’t understand how they could pick up such subtle fluctuations in each other’s physiological and psychological states, particularly since both of them were so stony faced, but he didn’t have to understand it.  
  
Right now the most notable difference between the two of them was that Mikasa was actually helping to set up the arena, rolling out mats and unfolding metal chairs with Eren and Bertolt and Reiner.  
  
In her long skirt and pink cardigan and the iconic scarf she almost never took off, Mikasa didn’t look like much of a fighter, but her dainty clothes hid a physique that was all muscle. Like Armin, Mikasa was far more formidable than she appeared at a glance. She was half Japanese and a popular rumor among fight enthusiasts was that her mother was a ninja and her father was a Green Beret. It was a funny joke at first, but after seeing her in action Reiner had started to wonder if it might actually be true.  
  
Though they were adversaries, there was an unexpressed mutual respect between the two women. Annie Leonhart and Mikasa Ackerman were, in the parlance of comic books and samurai films, worthy opponents to each other. Less than a month after Annie first started fighting it became apparent that she and Mikasa—until then an undefeated champion of the arena—were evenly matched in skill and strength, and Armin immediately saw potential in the situation. Finally his friend had an opponent who could actually challenge her, and finally he had thrilling and unpredictable matches that would draw in spectators and their bets.  
  
The Annie versus Mikasa fights happened every other week and on those nights, the place would be packed. Three times as many chairs had been carted in for tonight, as compared to last Saturday, and every one of them would be filled.  
  
Reiner didn’t know who he would be fighting. Except for the Clash of the Titanesses—a fan-coined term that had gone viral like an unfunny meme—matches were not announced until 9:00PM when Armin sent the night’s schedule from his iPad to the huge digital flatscreen he installed just for fight nights.  
  
Everything about the Warehouse 104 Fight Club was assiduously planned and followed very specific rules. It bore as little resemblance to Palahniuk’s version as Armin Arlert did to Tyler Durden. No underlying messages of anarchy and societal upheaval here, just great fights and staggering sums of cash changing hands.  
  
“I think we’re good to go tonight,” Armin said cheerfully, tapping a stylus on his iPad to unknown ends. There was a whiff of Mormon choirboy about him, all clean cut and cherubic looking. “As always, thank you for helping.”  
  
“As always, it’s no problem,” Bertolt replied. He was the _real_ angel, as far as Reiner was concerned. “I’m looking forward to whatever match you’ve picked for me.”  
  
Reiner hadn’t known that Bertolt was fighting tonight. Bertolt’s fights always added an extra layer of worry to Reiner’s mood. It was concern for his friend’s mental wellbeing more than his physical wellbeing—Could he have a flashback? Or a blackout? Or a breakdown? But for some reason, Reiner wasn’t too troubled by the news; he was feeling optimistic tonight, bright and effervescent.  
  
“I’ll see you again in a few hours,” said Eren, clapping a hand on Reiner’s shoulder. Eren Yeager—messy brown hair, sharp eyes the color of robins’ eggs, wiry build, always taut like a bowstring—was a decent guy, bullheaded perhaps, but that wasn’t such a bad trait. He was not as skilled a fighter as Mikasa or Annie or Reiner, or even Bertolt, but he was the undisputed champion of getting back up after being knocked down. Whenever Reiner had fought him it took at least five times for him to stay down for the count.  
  
“You fighting?” Reiner asked.  
  
“Yeah,” said Eren.  
  
“Well then, good luck.”  
  
“You too.” Eren smirked. “Unless your opponent in me, of course.”  
  
“Right.”  
  
Apparently, even Armin’s business partners didn’t know the matches beforehand. No matter who Reiner was up against, though, he would not lose—tonight he had to look cool.  
  
—  
  
Reiner’s opponent, it turned out, was not Eren but a big, lantern-jawed guy named Thomas, whom he’d defeated several times in the past. His would be the second fight of the night, Annie’s would be last—the grand finale so to speak—and Bertolt’s, against some dude named Ymir who’d never participated before, fell somewhere in the middle.  
  
While the first match—Samuel versus Franz—commenced, Reiner used stretching as a convenient excuse to crane his head around and scan the growing crowd for Berwick. What should he do when he saw him? Should he wave? Go up to him? Or wait until after his victory?  
  
Bertolt was on the other side of the warehouse getting some last minute coaching from Annie, which meant that his attention was fully claimed. Reiner was strangely relieved; for reasons he couldn’t articulate, the idea of introducing Berwick to Bertolt made him apprehensive. Berwick and Bertolt occupied separate spheres within his brain and he wanted to keep them separate. At least for now.  
  
“Hey!” The voice was cheery and close. A white flash of grin and a high arching wave of hand singled Berwick out from the crowd.  
  
“Hey,” Reiner replied. “Glad you got here early because I’m up next.”  
  
“Great,” said Berwick. He was in stovepipe jeans and an oversized green canvas jacket and his dark hair was scraped back with gel—he looked more handsome even than Reiner remembered. “If you want, we can leave after your match.”  
  
Reiner did not want to leave right after his match but was reluctant to tell Berwick exactly why. “Well, I’d kind of like to stick around to see this Ymir guy in action. Must be new—I’ve never seen or heard of him before.” It was the right fight but the wrong reason. Really Reiner had to watch Bertolt and make sure he was okay.  
  
Berwick chuckled. “Fair enough. Hey, I think it’s time for you to step into the ring.”  
  
Sure enough, Samuel had just knocked Franz to the ground, where he remained for a count of ten, and it was Reiner’s turn to show off. He stepped into the ring, which was demarcated in white on the black floor mat, and took his place opposite Thomas. This was going to be a very short fight. Reiner felt a bit sorry for Thomas, who tried so hard to get stronger between fights, but that didn’t mean he’d go easy on the guy. Bertolt and Berwick were both watching and Reiner wasn’t sure which of them he was more keen on impressing.  
  
As predicted, the fight did not last long. Reiner won handily, barely even breaking a sweat, but he was a good sport about it and helped Thomas get up on his feet after it was over. He was very aware of the eyes that were on him, Berwick’s and Bertolt’s, and though it was exhilarating, what he really wanted to do was slip back up to the apartment for a quick shower before Bertolt’s fight. There was definitely time, it was excusing himself from Berwick’s company without revealing that he happened to live inside this warehouse that might be tricky.  
  
Thankfully, Armin had approached Bertolt and engaged him in conversation so Reiner could go straight to dealing with Berwick.  
  
“Nice fight,” Berwick said, smiling as he rocked on the balls of his feet. “A bit of a curb-stomp battle, though, if you ask me. They should really put you up against someone more on your level. Hell, you might even be able to take on one of the Amazons.”  
  
“I don’t know about _that_ ,” said Reiner. It probably just sounded like modesty, but he meant it seriously. Still, it made him happier than it should to hear Berwick overestimate his talent. Reiner was almost tempted to skip the shower and stick around to see if there was more praise where that came from. No, he decided, he wasn’t that vain. “Hey, I’ve got to go run a quick errand. It won’t take long and I’ll be back in time to see this Ymir.”  
  
Berwick cocked his head in interest. “An errand? Want me to come with?”  
  
Not the response Reiner was expecting. “Uh, well, I said it was an errand but really I’m just going to dash back to my place for a shower. I live like a block away.” Hopefully he wouldn’t ask to come along for that.  
  
“Okay, that’s cool,” Berwick said and then scrunched his nose. “I had no idea there were any apartment buildings around here. Heh, doesn’t matter. See you in a few, Reiner. And again, you were awesome.”  
  
Before Reiner departed, Berwick touched his bare shoulder in a friendly manner. Reiner liked how it felt.  
  
—  
  
Back in the apartment, Reiner tried to assemble his thoughts and feelings into something clear and compact and simple, but he didn’t even know where to begin. He looked around him, taking in this tiny life that he was living with Annie and Bertolt—all of them in one room, sleeping bags and futons instead of beds, no kitchen, barely a bathroom. They were like kids at a never ending summer camp.  
  
A library copy of _The Watchmen_ was set on his pillow, checked out for him by Bertolt on Armin’s card.  
  
Reiner loved Bertolt. God how he loved him. But what was the point? What good could ever come from him being in love with Bertolt?  
  
When Reiner stepped into the bathroom compartment, he found one of Bertolt’s shirts hanging on the truncated towel rack. He picked it up and pressed it over his nose, inhaling deeply. The lingering scent of Bertolt’s body—clean sweat and grassy soap—was enough to make his cock twitch in longing.  
  
Fuck, what was he doing? Not just this pathetic, hopeless pining, which wasn’t new but had gotten worse, but also the whole thing with Berwick.  
  
And just what was this thing with Berwick? Reiner barely even knew Berwick—how could he when he’d just met him today? But Berwick was friendly and handsome and—yes, Reiner would admit it to himself—looked a lot like Bertolt. And all of those qualities had gotten Reiner inappropriately excited. In all likelihood, though, Berwick wasn’t gay either. Admiring a guy’s fighting skill wasn’t tantamount to sexual attraction. And yet, Reiner realized, he’d been thinking of the time he would spend with Berwick tonight as a date.  
  
Even if it wasn’t a date—and it almost certainly wasn’t—he felt an irrational twinge of disloyalty towards Bertolt. It was because he was physically attracted to Berwick. He imagined Bertolt finding out and feeling jealous and betrayed, which was pure fantasy, but it contributed to his not wanting Bertolt to know about Berwick—Reiner wanted to delay witnessing Bertolt’s complete lack of jealousy for as long as possible. Shit, Bertl would probably be happy that Reiner finally had a new friend.  
  
After a quick but efficient shower, Reiner got dressed in nice-ish clothes: khaki pants and a button-up shirt. It wasn’t a date—he’d finally gotten that into his thick head with certainty—but he still wanted to look good and not like a runaway, living out of an overhauled office in an empty warehouse, off money his little sister made from beating the shit out of another girl.  
  
When he arrived back at the arena, Bertolt’s fight was just about to begin. Oddly perfect timing. He found Berwick amongst the ringside crowd and joined him.  
  
“You’re just in time,” said Berwick.  
  
“I told you I wouldn’t miss it,” said Reiner, grinning even though he felt a knot of worry in his stomach.  
  
Bertolt entered the ring in cropped black yoga pants, no shoes and no shirt. Reiner felt a warm flush in his cheeks and hoped Berwick didn’t notice. Before his opponent joined him, Bertolt performed a few bits of footwork as he jabbed the air with his taped fists. He had the lanky, alien grace of a loping giraffe. At last the mysterious Ymir appeared, though Reiner didn’t realize right away that the person who’d joined Bertolt in the ring was, in fact, his opponent because Ymir, quite shockingly, was a woman.  
  
“Ymir is a chick?” Berwick uttered. “Reiner, did you know that?”  
  
“That I did not know,” he answered, still blinking in disbelief at the scene in front of his eyes.  
  
Bertolt had apparently not known either as he’d stopped his bobbing and weaving when he saw her and now stood frozen, with a panic-stricken look in his eyes. It wasn’t in Bertolt’s nature to hit a girl. Reiner knew this and he had to wonder how good a friend Armin really was to put him in this position.  
  
Ymir was lean and brown and freckled. Her breasts weren’t much, but they were there in her sports bra—she was definitely female. As soon as the air horn blast indicated the start of the fight, she lunged at Bertolt and whipped out her leg in a swift kick. Bertolt dodged, emitting a squeak of distress as he did, and a wave of uproarious laughter swept through the crowd.  
  
“Ah, come on!” Ymir bellowed. “You can do better than that, Longshanks!”  
  
She set on him aggressively with wild swings of arms and legs and he continued to skirt her attacks, ducking and scurrying like a skittish crab. The crowd responded with sustained amusement, expressed in great swelling waves of laughter.  
  
Among the most vociferous of laughers was Berwick, who whooped and hollered and held his belly as if to keep himself from splitting open. In fact, the only person laughing louder than Berwick was Ymir herself, who crowed out a ringing, avian laugh. Reiner was not so amused—everyone else saw the hilarious bumbling of a craven, scared of a girl, but he saw his best friend, a sensitive guy who’d been put on the spot and couldn’t betray his feelings so easily.  
  
Bertolt was good at dodging but Ymir was _very_ good at attacking, and a good number of her blows landed, catching him in his ribs, his shoulders, his arms that were raised in defense.  
  
“Fight back, already!” yelled Ymir. “Hit me, you sweaty giraffe!”  
  
In response, Bertolt yelped.  
  
Reiner was tempted to call out to him. Should he? He was still agonizing when somebody beat him to it.  
  
“Bertl, you’ve got to fight back! Pretend she’s a guy and kick his ass!” It was Annie, of course, without any care for the mood of the room. “Remember what I taught you!”  
  
The cheer had an immediate effect, spurring Bertolt to finally engage in offense—of course it would be Annie who reached him. But when his knuckles connected with his opponent’s body and he saw her wince and flinch, all the newfound pluck drained from him. Twice more he attempted counterattacks and twice more he lost his nerve.  
  
When Ymir knocked him down, Bertolt didn’t even try to stand back up, though Reiner was pretty sure he could have.  
  
“Oh man! That was fucking hilarious!” said Berwick, catching his breath after expending so much energy on guffaws. There were tears on the rims of his eyelids he’d laughed so hard. “So Reiner, you ready to get out of here?”  
  
“Yeah,” said Reiner, with concerted effort to keep his voice casual. Really he felt tense and conflicted, with a not-small dose of secondhand embarrassment. Part of him wanted nothing more than to go to Bertolt and tell him it was okay that he couldn’t fight back, okay that he’d let himself get beat by a girl—there really wasn’t any shame in losing to a girl, hell, even if he’d fought her tooth and nail Ymir still might have trounced him because she was quick and fierce—but the fact that he hadn’t even tried to win was hard to excuse. Bertolt knew that matches could be mixed-sex and he should have been mentally prepared for that.  
  
As he was leaving with Berwick, Reiner was careful to avoid running into the defeated and humiliated Bertolt, but he did happen to brush past Annie, and when he did he gave her a message: “I’m going out with a friend. Pass the word to Bertl, will you? Oh, and kick Mikasa’s ass. That should go without saying.”  
  
She smirked. “Heh. And yet you said it. Okay then, have a good time, bro.”  
  
She didn’t care if he missed her fight. Sure, he liked to watch his sister in action, but he wasn’t compelled to observe all of her matches the way he did Bertolt’s—Annie could hold her own in any situation.  
  
—  
  
Berwick chose the location, a cupboard of a bar that was tucked into an alley a few blocks from the warehouse. The place was almost empty—just a goateed poet-type customer lost in _Ulysses_ and a drowsy-looking woman behind the bar—and pleasantly dank, that is, warm and smelling faintly of hashish. The wooden tabletops were scuffed but clean, each one illuminated by a cone of light from a hanging lamp.  
  
Reiner and Berwick sat down across from each other in a corner booth. They both shrugged off their jackets and Reiner couldn’t help noticing that Berwick’s long-sleeved teal shirt looked an awful lot like one Bertolt owned. Then he served himself an expletive studded mental scolding for thinking about Bertl again when he was here to have fun with somebody else.  
  
“I probably should’ve mentioned that I’m only eighteen,” Reiner said, something that might prove a serious impediment to fun.  
  
“She won’t card you,” said Berwick, and sure enough, when the drowsy woman came to them, she asked for their orders and nothing else. After she left to get their beers, he turned back to Reiner and said, “So how about that cowardly beanpole? Was that crazy or what?”  
  
Ah, he had to open with that. Reiner didn’t want to get into an argument, but he had to defend Bertolt’s honor. “Some guys just can’t get used to hitting girls,” he said, shrugging. “I wouldn’t call that cowardly. And besides, that Ymir chick was scary. If I had to go up against her I might try to run and hide.”  
  
Berwick threw his head back and laughed. “You’re right about that. I’d be afraid she would eat me alive.”  
  
“She _would_ eat you alive!”  
  
They both laughed and any leftover tension melted. Then the beers came and they continued to talk.  
  
“So, how did you get into the fight club scene?” Berwick asked.  
  
“Would you believe my little sister got me into it?” Reiner said. “She’s the blond one of the two superstars, you know, the Amazons or Titanesses or whatever you want to call them.” With a stranger he wouldn’t have shared this connection for fear that it would be a tipoff to their identities, but Reiner trusted Berwick.  
  
“Wow,” said Berwick, impressed. “I guess it must run in the family then. Very cool. Hey, I figure you’ve probably seen the movie, with Pitt and Norton, but I don’t suppose you’ve read the book, have you?”  
  
“What, you mean _Fight Club_? Yeah, I’ve read it. One of the few _book_ -books I really liked, to be honest—I’m more of a graphic novel guy. But my best friend gave it to me for Christmas a couple years ago and I loved it.”  
  
Berwick grinned in his bright, warm way that made Reiner feel at ease. “I love it, too. In fact it’s my favorite book. Your friend has great taste.”  
  
Heat climbed up Reiner’s neck—he was helpless against people complimenting Bertolt. Better balance it out with some good-natured ribbing. “In books, maybe. Not so much in drinking establishments. Do you know a place called Paddy’s Pub?”  
  
“Paddy’s? The guy seriously goes there?” Berwick was incredulous and delighted. “Oh man, that place would need a good hard scrubbing to be a shit-hole. Well I’m sure he’s a nice guy anyways, but man... Paddy’s? Ah, back on the subject of _Fight Club_ , though, I find it fascinating that a book that is considered by many to be a treatise on masculinity was written by a gay man. I mean, all of Palahniuk’s works are like that—real manly literature, you know?—and the dude is homosexual. I wonder how many of his fans even know.”  
  
“That is pretty interesting,” said Reiner. It actually was interesting, and he hadn’t known it before—nor had he read anything else by Chuck Palahniuk besides _Fight Club_ —but the fact that Berwick had randomly thrown out that particular bit of trivia made his insides squirm. Did Berwick know? Or suspect? Shit, he had to get ahold of himself—he couldn’t turn into a quivering nervous wreck anytime somebody mentioned homosexuality.  
  
Thankfully, Berwick didn’t pursue the topic further, instead asking, “So did you ever track down that Hannes guy?”  
  
Reiner sighed. “Ah, no, but it wasn’t important anyway. Just a long, boring story.” Even if he trusted Berwick enough to share real names and relationships, he still wasn’t ready to tell his life story. And anyway, the whole search for Hannes, for fathers, was already falling away, like something stationary seen through the rear-view mirror of a forward moving car. He wanted to move forward, wanted to leave behind the nameless insecurities that had plagued him for too long. Perhaps meeting Berwick was the push he needed.  
  
“I’d like to get to know you, Berwick,” he said.  
  
Over the course of an hour and three more beers, Reiner learned a lot about Marcel Berwick Vogel—“Yeah, the name’s a fucking mouthful so I just go by Berwick.”  
  
Berwick was twenty-three, originally from New York City, now a graduate student in Digital Media at Drexel University with hopes of working in video game design. He had one sibling, an older brother named Anselm, who was doing his residency at the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia and tended to refer to his younger sibling’s graduate degree as _“a fifty-thousand dollar ticket to a job at Starbucks,”_ but in a good-humored sort of way. Their parents had gone through a messy divorce when Berwick was still in high school so Anselm, who was working on his pre-med degree at the time, had taken him in on the condition that he get a part-time job and help take care of the apartment. They’d been together ever since.  
  
Berwick liked small but powerful digital devices, Android phones, tablets, Nintendo 3DS and such. His favorite band was one that Reiner had never heard of before called Cut Copy. He read a lot—not as much as Bertolt—and was completely enamored of video games. Though he had no particular affinity for baseball, he liked the Phillies better than he’d ever liked the Yankees. Football was his sport of choice, and he was impressed that Reiner used to play. For weather, he liked it cold, but he’d pick the beach over the mountains any day. His favorite food was pizza and he claimed nobody outside of New York got it quite right but that plenty came close enough to be forgiven.  
  
Reiner also learned, not from anything Berwick said but from the act of watching him speak, that Berwick’s eyes were not, in fact, green but were actually blue, with a corona of gold around the pupil. And he had one tooth—just one out of his entire set—that had grown in at an odd angle, but somehow the imperfection only enhanced his smile and gave it a more charming character.  
  
In exchange, Reiner shared a moderately edited autobiography—manslaughter and homoerotic dreams, for example, were expurgated—and got an indulgent sense of satisfaction when Berwick listened intently to him and asked him questions.  
  
Once the conversation started flowing, it kept flowing naturally and without any gaffes or awkward silences. When a moment of quiet did finally come, it was a comfortable peace, like they’d already shared enough with each other that they could stop talking and still feel like they were having a dialogue.  
  
“You’re really cool, Reiner,” said Berwick. “I know I said that already before, but now I can say it and really mean it.”  
  
“Yeah, you’re cool, too,” said Reiner with a contented smile. “I like you, Berwick.”  
  
Berwick was also smiling, but it wasn’t his bright grin from before, this smile was closed-mouth and had a touch of coyness to it, like he was holding back a juicy secret. He leaned over the table, close enough that Reiner caught the fruity scent of his shampoo, and whispered, “Meet me in the men’s room in three.” Then he stood up, stretched out his arms, and casually walked to the corner of the bar where a narrow hallway led to the restrooms.  
  
 _Meet him? In the men’s room? In three? Three what? Minutes?_  
  
Reiner’s heartbeat sped up to a rate more suited to a small furry creature than a human being. He didn’t know exactly what would happen if he went back to that restroom but he felt the anticipation of that unknown coursing through him like electrical current. _Something_ was going to happen or else Berwick wouldn’t have invited him back, and yet a part of him was still in denial—that Berwick was gay, that _he_ was gay, that Berwick wanted him, that he wanted Berwick—it all felt so strange and dreamlike. Of course, in Reiner’s dreams it always happened on a bed or a couch or a rug in front of a roaring fire—someplace private and comfortable—never a men’s room in the back of some hipster bar. And in his dreams it was always Bertolt and every act overflowed with love.  
  
He glanced at the clock on the wall: he still had two minutes. Just like earlier in the day, when he’d been standing in front of the house that turned out to be Berwick’s, Reiner found himself facing a critical decision. He could leave now, just get up and leave, and if he ever ran into Berwick again he could say he decided that he couldn’t lead him on because he wasn’t gay—but that would be a lie. The truth was that, even though he was scared, he didn’t really want to leave. He wouldn’t be so excited if a part of him wasn’t yearning to know what would happen next.  
  
Drawing in a deep breath, Reiner stood. He probably failed at making it look as natural as Berwick had, but the lady from the bar had her head bent down as she scrubbed the counter with a rag and the man reading _Ulysses_ was still fully engrossed, so neither of them noticed him.  
  
Almost as soon as he slipped into the men’s room, Berwick pinned him against the door with a fervid kiss. Whatever Reiner thought might happen, he never thought it would happen so fast. Stunned, he pushed Berwick away, but not roughly.  
  
“Sorry,” Berwick said, raking his fingers through his hair. “I guess I got a little overzealous there. It’s just, god, looking at that mouth for the past hour has been fucking torturous. But I’m so happy you came back.”  
  
Any doubts about Berwick’s sexuality and desire for him expunged, Reiner still wasn’t sure how to proceed. “Look,” he said cautiously, heart galloping, “I don’t want to disappoint you, because I really do like you, Berwick, but the truth is, I’m not...”  
  
“Oh shit, please don’t tell me you’re not gay,” Berwick said, a note of panic in his voice. “I‘ve been getting these vibes from you all evening. Hell, I sensed it back when you first introduced yourself outside my house. Please, please tell me my instincts aren’t _that_ off.”  
  
Reiner held up his hands, palms outs, as if he were being questioned by a cop. “Your instincts aren’t off. I am gay.” Though he’d known it in his heart for years, this was the first time he’d ever said it out loud and the words tasted terrifying and wonderful and true as they left his mouth. “What I was going to say is that I’m not... experienced.”  
  
“Oh,” said Berwick, face gone blank with calm surprise. “Is that all? Well that’s not a problem. We can go slowly. You, uh, you are interested, though, right?” As he asked this, he moved in close to Reiner again and his expression turned seductive.  
  
“Yeah.” Reiner’s answer was a husky whisper. He didn’t feel scared anymore, or if he did, it was now completely overpowered by the desire Berwick had put in him, with his silken voice and his sand and sea eyes. “I’m very interested.”  
  
When Berwick closed the remaining gap between them and joined their mouths again, it dawned on Reiner that the previous kiss had been his first—not just with a man but with anyone—and he’d been too shocked to realize it as it was happening. This time he melted into it, savoring the softness and sweetness of Berwick’s lips. Delicious heat snaked down his spine and out to his limbs like chain lightning. There could be no questioning whether or not he liked men—the answer was a resounding _yes_.  
  
The kiss deepened—Berwick’s tongue curled into Reiner’s mouth, his hands gripped Reiner’s ass and pulled him closer. Reiner drew in a sharp breath as one hand dragged slowly over the curve of his hip and came to rest between his legs. Berwick was skilled, teasing through the layers of pants and underwear with two fingers and coaxing Reiner’s cock to swell into his warm, cupped palm.  
  
This wasn’t exactly what Reiner considered going slow, but it was too exhilarating to ask Berwick to stop. He panted. “Ah, maybe we should go somewhere more, ah, private.”  
  
“Naw,” Berwick whispered. “This place is fine.” Now both of his hands were at the front of Reiner’s pants, deftly working to open the belt buckle, the button, the zipper. When all had been undone he slid his fingers under the waist of Reiner’s boxers and pushed them down along with his pants.  
  
Again Reiner gasped, this time from the chill of sudden exposure. But Berwick’s hands were hot—one kneaded circles over the taut muscles of his ass as the other wrapped around his stiffening cock. “Fuck,” Reiner muttered when Berwick started to stroke up and down the length of him. “Fuck.”  
  
Berwick, hands still working, leaned in to press his mouth to Reiner’s ear and whispered, “I’m just getting you warmed up.” He retracted his touch and, before Reiner had time to mourn the loss of contact, sank down onto his knees so his humid breath lapped against Reiner’s bare skin.  
  
Reiner’s eyes went wide, unintentionally taking in the sight of a framed print hanging on the opposite wall, a toucan with a pint glass balanced on its colorful beak— _Lovely day for a Guinness!_ It felt so surreal that this was happening in a restroom, but at least it was a very clean restroom.  
  
“Heh, I see the carpet matches the drapes,” said Berwick.  
  
“What?”  
  
“I mean your hair is blond even down here,” he said, brushing his fingertips through it and sending a wave of goosebumps up Reiner’s belly. “I think it’s hot. Blonds are definitely my type.”  
  
“That’s...” Whatever Reiner intended to say was arrested in his throat as Berwick’s mouth engulfed him. The intensity of sensation made his knees threaten to buckle and he buttressed his hands against the door behind him. “Ah... fuck...”  
  
It took all of his self-control not to thrust into the lush, wet heat surrounding him. This was Berwick’s show, and Berwick obviously knew what he was doing—the way he rolled his tongue around the crown and over the sensitive slit and applied just the right amount of suction while keeping his teeth completely out of the equation. He took Reiner’s full length into his mouth, so deep that when he swallowed the contraction of his throat squeezed the plum head of Reiner’s penis and made him gasp.  
  
This felt incredible. Hell, it even sounded incredible—the exquisitely slick sucking noises of Berwick’s mouth on his flesh combined with his own ragged breathing to create a sort of pornographic harmony.  
  
And just when Reiner thought he’d experienced his partner’s full oral repertoire, Berwick pushed his pants further down and nudged his knees further apart to grant him deeper access, one hand curving up between Reiner’s thighs to cradle his balls and stroke the extra bit of cock hidden behind them.  
  
Reiner’s thoughts were all going muzzy but the pleasure kept building higher. How much longer could this possibly last? He’d closed his eyes early on for better focus, but now he opened them and gazed down at the top of Berwick’s head and the dark teal arch of his back as he continued his adept ministrations. From this angle he was indistinguishable from Bertolt.  
  
With a shuddering breath, Reiner felt himself teeter on the edge of oblivion and it was thinking about Bertolt that put him there. It wasn’t fair of him to be imagining Bertolt while Berwick was pleasuring him, but— _oh god_ —the moment he did his ecstasy spiked. He threaded his fingers into that mess of dark hair. Even though his brain knew better, he pretended it was Bertolt kneeling in front of him, pretended it was Bertolt’s beautiful mouth he was fucking. And that was it.  
  
Orgasm hit Reiner like a gale force wind, tearing a moan from deep inside of him that he could only hold back by biting down hard on his lower lip. “Ber...!” His breath hitched in his throat where it stayed lodged for several seconds as waves of pleasure racked his body and left it limp and sagging back against the door.  
  
Berwick waited until he was standing up again to swallow, adams apple bobbing and the corners of his mouth curling up in a pleased smile. “Next time I’m going to have to do that someplace where you don’t have to stop yourself from moaning my name. Just the first half of it was really fucking hot.”  
  
“Ah. Yeah. Th-thanks. That. Was. Great.” Reiner could only reply in monosyllables as his heart and lungs took their time to calm. How fortunate he was that the name of the guy who’d been sucking his dick began the same way as the guy he’d been thinking about.  
  
As the world around him came back into focus—amidst his clumsy buckling and buttoning and zipping up—Reiner didn’t know what the next step was. Berwick had just given him his first sexual experience and he had no idea what was expected of him in return. At a loss, he flat-out asked. “So, uh, do I take care of you now?”  
  
Berwick put his hands on the back of Reiner’s neck and pulled him in for a soft, gentle kiss. “You can make it up to me next time,” he said.  
  
Taken by a sudden and unexpected surge of sentimentality, Reiner wrapped his arms around Berwick and asked, “Next time?”  
  
“Well yeah,” Berwick answered. “I’d like to keep seeing you, Reiner.”  
  
Reiner smiled tentatively. “I’d like that, too.” Even though he’d been thinking of Bertolt, he knew that Bertolt didn’t want him the way Berwick did. Here was a smart, interesting, handsome man who liked him and wanted to date him. This was uncharted territory for Reiner, and perhaps it was the influence of all those endorphins rushing through his system, but he was feeling adventurous. He had to move forward.  
  
Oh, but there was still one concern he had. “Uh, Berwick?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
It was difficult for Reiner to say this when he hadn’t the faintest idea what kind of criticism it might bring down upon him. “We’ve been really honest with each other up to now and I want that to continue, so I feel I should tell you that I’m not exactly... That is, other people don’t know that I’m...”  
  
“Are you trying to tell me you aren’t out yet?” Berwick asked without a trace of judgment.  
  
“I’ve only recently been able to admit it to myself,” said Reiner, which was a true confession. “There are still a lot of things I need to work out in private before I am ready to make it public. I suppose you must think I’m a coward now.”  
  
Berwick gave him another kiss, on the cheek this time, and said, “Not at all, Reiner. You have to do it at your own pace. Given your lack of experience it makes total sense. Heh, maybe a slightly older boyfriend is just what you need to help you feel more comfortable with your orientation.”  
  
“You might be right,” said Reiner. Berwick’s offhand use of the word _boyfriend_ had given him a heady rush of excitement and left him feeling hopeful. “So, uh, now  what?” He was referring to how they were going to leave the men’s room without arousing suspicions.  
  
Berwick understood the question but did not sound overly concerned in his reply. “You go first and I will follow in a few minutes. Just like how we got back here. It’s not really a big deal. I suspect the barkeeper has some idea of what goes down—so to speak—in these restrooms. And this is far from the first time.”  
  
Reiner wondered if Berwick was speaking generally or referring specifically of his own experiences, but knew better than to ask.  As instructed, he walked out of the restroom before Berwick and went back to the booth where they’d been sitting—less than fifteen minutes ago according to the clock. The barkeeper watched him, fixing him with a look that said, _“I know you got head in my men’s room so just leave me a big tip and I won’t say anything.”_  
  
Berwick joined him a few minutes later and payed their tab. He offered to walk Reiner back to his home, but Reiner just asked to be taken back to Warehouse 104. His roommates were a little paranoid, he explained, and didn’t want anyone to know where they lived.  
  
“Oh I see,” Berwick responded, with a raised eyebrow that suggested he was thinking they grew hearty crops of marijuana.  
  
Before they parted, with one more good kiss, Berwick wrote down his phone number on Reiner’s hand in ballpoint pen. “Give me a call this week, okay?”  
  
“I will,” said Reiner. Then he made his way to the apartment feeling somehow both relaxed and invigorated at once.  
  
Bertolt was still awake when Reiner entered the apartment, even though it was past 1:00AM. He was sitting with an open library book on his lap— _The Magicians_ by Lev Grossman—and a stack of others, waiting to be read, next to him: _Sirens of Titan, The Gargoyle, Gorky Park, Turn of the Screw_ , all in crispy mylar wrappers. Next to the stack was a souvenir coffee mug with a picture of the Liberty Bell on it, which Reiner suspected contained more than just coffee.  
  
“Oh, it’s you,” Bertolt said, looking up from his book at the sound of the door opening. “Hey Reiner. Did you have a good time with your friend?”  
  
“Yeah, I had fun,” said Reiner, tamping down his annoyance at the tinge of disappointment he’d detected in Bertolt’s greeting. It was Annie he was waiting up for, Annie he’d hoped to see come through that door, home from a date with her latest man-of-the-week.  
  
“I’m glad,” Bertolt said, and his smile was genuine. He had no idea what Reiner was really up to tonight. “Congratulations on winning your fight, by the way. You were the only one of us who did. But Mikasa just barely beat Annie—it was close for the whole match, you missed a good one.”  
  
Reiner shrugged. “Ah well, she wins some and she loses some. I’m just sorry that Armin pulled that trick on you, making you fight a girl.”  
  
“Oh that,” Bertolt said, with a self-deprecating chuckle. “It was a little embarrassing, yeah, but Armin said it was a big hit. Apparently tons of people told him they would pay to see a fight like that again. Too bad Ymir is only in town for a few weeks, though.”  
  
“So I take it you hung out with Armin and his gang after the fights?” Reiner asked. He wasn’t jealous, of course—how could he be when he’d been with Berwick?—but he needed to be assured that Bertolt was doing okay, that he was being treated well.  
  
“If you call disassembling the arena hanging out,” said Bertolt. “But they are good company.” He paused and tucked a scrap of paper into his book to mark his spot before closing it. “Hey Reiner? I think it’s really great that you have a new friend, but I am happy that you’re home now.”  
  
“Thanks, Bertl,” Reiner said, more touched than he cared to let on.  
  
Home. This little birdhouse of an apartment was still home.  
  
—  
  
Over the next weeks, Reiner continued to secretly see Berwick. It really wasn’t difficult, he just substituted their dates for the time he would have otherwise spent conducting more rigorous research into the identities and locations of possible fathers—a project he’d decided to put on indefinite hiatus.  
  
He did repay the one-sided pleasure he’d gotten from Berwick, even if his first attempt was fumbling and awkward and needing of guidance—guidance that Berwick was happy to provide. Most of their time together, though, was spent in non-sexual activities: talking in bars and coffee shops, watching movies and playing video games at the red townhouse, taking walks around various city parks. They made a good pair—conversation always came easily and there was definitely chemistry between the two of them. And yet Reiner found that his mind would still, on occasion, drift longingly to Bertolt, even when he and Berwick were have a great time.  
  
It was a bad idea to compare the two, but Reiner couldn’t help doing just that, almost reflexively, when he was with either one.  
  
For all of their physical similarity, Bertolt and Berwick had very different personalities. In trying to describe Bertolt—and it would always just be trying because Reiner knew he could never truly pin down as strange and wonderful a creature as Bertolt Hoover within the constraints of language—the first word that came to mind was melancholic. Bertolt was quiet and serious, shy when he was younger, taciturn now. There was a world-weariness to him, an indistinct quality that made him seem like he belonged in some old, bleak Russian novel—Reiner had never actually read any Russian novels, but he assumed they were bleak—instead of 21st Century America. But Reiner never found him depressing to be around. Bertolt didn’t laugh much, but when he was funny he was hilarious, arch and brilliant in his cynicism.  
  
Reiner remembered how years ago Dad had told a preteen Bertolt that he was what was called an Old Soul, somebody who’d lived and died and been reincarnated many times, and though he couldn’t remember his past lives, there were traces of them, triumphs and tragedies, woven through him. Reiner didn’t know if he believed all that, but he knew that Bertolt had plenty of tragedy in his current life: he’d accidentally killed a man and ran away from home because of it. That alone was pretty awful, but it started before that. His mom had always treated him like garbage and he was bullied at school before Reiner became his friend and started threatening bodily harm to anyone who even tried. And there was something else, too, something Bertolt wouldn’t share even with Reiner and Annie but that Reiner knew was there—the way he thrashed around in his sleep spoke of some faceless horror that Reiner could only imagine.  
  
Berwick, on the other hand, was as energetic as a puppy. If Bertolt was an Old Soul, Berwick was brand new, always jumping up on park benches while whooping like a madman, barreling headlong into flocks of pigeons clustered around a fountain just to see them scatter. At times he was downright manic and it alarmed Reiner just a little bit.  
  
Berwick laughed loudly and often. On movie nights he always picked something like _The Hangover_ or _Anchorman_ or _Death to Smoochy_ and laughed at every joke—even things that weren’t jokes if he’d been drinking. Somehow, though, all his excess energy wasn’t obnoxious; his enthusiasm was infectious, making Reiner cheerier just by proximity.  
  
Of course, with his highs being so high, Berwick’s lows were bound to be extreme as well. Thankfully Reiner had only seen Berwick upset once and it wasn’t directed at him; Berwick was fuming over some fight he’d had with Anselm, the older brother Reiner still had yet to meet, and inflicted some collateral damage to communal property in their townhouse. That was just an isolated incident, though.  
  
Also interesting about Berwick, at least to Reiner, was that, except for when they were making out on his couch, he really didn’t seem gay. Really, he was just an ordinary guy who went to his classes and his internship, who played _Assassin’s Creed_ and _Portal,_ who watched football and ate pizza, and who happened to like men. Reiner did wonder if Berwick played down his orientation when the two of them were together in public, for his sake, because he wasn’t ready to be out yet, but even if that was the case, Berwick never acted frustrated by having to play “just friends” while strolling through the park. And Berwick never put Reiner into a situation that made him uncomfortable or pushed him to come out—he was content to let Reiner figure things out at his own pace.  
  
That consistent patience was the primary reason Reiner felt obliged to say yes when Berwick invited him to go to a gay club, even though the idea made his stomach flop like a freshly caught fish still on the hook. It was a step in the right direction, he told himself, forward momentum, good practice—after all, how could he ever expect to be comfortable being openly gay around the people he loved if he couldn’t even be openly gay around an anonymous crowd of other openly gay men?  
  
Still, the mere mention of a gay club caused Reiner’s imagination to conjure up images of sequined drag queens and heavily muscled beefcakes in glittering banana hammocks and other lifestyle-ish personae that just weren’t him.  
  
Whatever happened tonight—exactly two week after that post-fight first date, for what it was worth—he would get through it.  
  
Annie wasn’t particularly curious when he’d announced that he would be going out with a friend on a Saturday night instead of fighting, but Bertolt was and asked him eagerly where he was going.  
  
“Just a party,” Reiner said, cheeks warm from the discomfort of lying to Bertolt. A part of him—a part he’d convinced himself was sick and desperate—wished Bertolt would be jealous and beg to come along, and that when he stepped with Reiner into that strobe and techno filled oasis he’d realize that they didn’t belong there but somewhere else, just the two of them together.  
  
It made Reiner wonder: if Bertolt suddenly showed an interest would he break up with Berwick?  
  
After thinking this, he shook his head vigorously back and forth, as if to dispel his ludicrous, misguided notions. He wished Bertolt and Annie good luck in their fights—it was another Clash of the Titanesses night, which meant big crowds and high pressure—and then headed out into the frigid air of the last night in January to go meet Berwick.  
  
—  
  
The club was called Blue Moon and from the outside it looked like any other club, an unassuming facade of gray stone with the name above the door in neon piping. But just because there wasn’t a great big light-up naked dude on the outside it didn’t mean the place wasn’t off-the-wall flamboyant on the inside. Berwick talked to the bouncer, a large but otherwise ordinary looking guy, who let them in right away and Reiner held his breath as he passed through the door.  
  
Actually, it wasn’t too bad inside. Yeah, there were strobe lights and the music was too loud, but that was true of every dance club, Reiner assumed. The only thing different about Blue Moon was the complete absence of women. There was no shortage of men, though, mostly young but covering the full spectrum of height, shape, and ethnicity. To Reiner’s relief, the vast majority were dressed like he was, in stylish jeans and shirts.  
  
“Dance?” Berwick asked, shouting to be heard over the floor-shaking music.  
  
Reiner didn’t dance, but he couldn’t decline the offer as it might prompt Berwick to question why he’d even agreed to come. So he shouted in reply, “Okay, but I have to warn you I don’t have much rhythm.”  
  
“That’s okay,” said Berwick grabbing his hand and pulling him out to the dance floor.  
  
A fast song was playing, some female pop artist—for all Reiner knew it was the unfathomable Lady Gaga—but it had a nice sound.  
  
 _Dance the night away;_  
 _Live your life and stay young on the floor;_  
 _Dance the night away;_  
 _Grab somebody, drink a little more._  
  
Dancing, Reiner discovered, was really not that difficult, unless you were someone who liked to show off, which he most certainly was not. And it was admittedly nice to be able to bump hips with his date without having to worry about what anybody around them saw or thought of it.  
  
When the fast song ended and a slow song came on, he got a nervous lump in his throat, anticipating that Berwick would want to keep dancing. Not that a slow dance was something Reiner wasn’t interested in, it was just such a new experience to sway to music while holding onto another man, when just a few weeks ago he wouldn’t even admit out loud that he was homosexual. But as the slow song started to play, Berwick’s eyes flitted across the room and he waved to a distant somebody before turning back to Reiner.  
  
“Hey, I just saw an old friend of mine so I’m just going to go say hi and maybe talk for a few minutes. That okay, babe?”  
  
Reiner blinked in astonishment, taken aback by the pet name. “Uh, yeah. I guess that’s okay.”  
  
Berwick leaned in and kissed him, a quick peck on the mouth, and said, “Don’t worry, it’s not somebody I’m into. You’re the only man I’m into right now, Reiner.” Then he kissed again, deeply this time, with a good swipe of tongue. “I won’t be long, but go and get yourself a drink.”  
  
Watching Berwick stride away, Reiner let himself frown. He felt abandoned and when he acknowledged that he felt abandoned he felt embarrassed by his neediness. True he was an extrovert, but he was way out of his element here. Normally Reiner was such a take-charge kind of guy, a natural leader and protector, but his inexperience made him defer to Berwick on all matters of being gay and now Berwick had just left him in the middle of a dance floor.  
  
He supposed that when Berwick said to get a drink, he must have meant a Coke or Sprite because Reiner was quite sure a place like this had more diligent carding practices than Paddy’s or the bar where they’d had their tryst in the men’s room. Still, a Coke sounded pretty good right now so he made his way towards the bar. En route, he was approached by three different men who each asked him, while smiling invitingly, if he was here with someone and offered to buy him a drink. He’d said no to all of them and when he mentioned he was only eighteen, one of them called him a barely legal stud.  
  
Shit, he though, is this what women have to put up with at regular clubs?  
  
At the bar, he ordered a Coke with ice and had just taken a sip when he saw a familiar face several stools away—he’d only seen it once before, but it was unmistakable, and, just like the first time, surprising for the distinction of being female. Darkly vulpine features, golden brown eyes like caramel drops, saddle of freckles over the nose. It was Ymir.  
  
Reiner picked up his tumbler and coaster and moved to the empty seat next to her. “Hey there,” he said. “Uh, you do know that this is a gay bar, right?”  
  
Ymir let out an affected gasp of shock, clasping a hand to her chest dramatically. “It is?” she said, with an obscene level of sarcasm. “Oh dear me! Why didn’t anyone tell me? I thought this was Brauhaus Schmitz on all-you-can-eat sausage night!” She punctuated it with her birdlike laugh, as if it weren’t obvious from the start that she was joking.  
  
“Ha ha, very funny,” said Reiner.  
  
Ymir’s face had gone cool but she raised an eyebrow at him. “I think the real question is, do _you_ know this is a gay bar? Surrounded by hunks and you come and sit next to the only woman in the joint. Kinda strange if you ask me.”  
  
Reiner smiled—her wit amused him. “Actually, I came over here because I recognized you from when you fought at Warehouse 104 two weeks ago.”  
  
“Is that what they call that place?”  
  
“Yeah,” said Reiner. “And I’ll never forget your fight. Ymir, right? I’m Reiner. You went up against my best friend, Bertolt.”  
  
At this, Ymir’s face brightened. “Longshanks is your buddy? No shit! Is he here with you?”  
  
The question, and the hopefulness with which she asked it, shot a giddy thrill through Reiner that died the moment he opened his mouth to tell her the truth. “No. Bertolt isn’t...”  
  
“Yeah, I know, he’s hetero,” Ymir cut in, speaking as if she’d known Bertolt for years. “But I thought maybe you’d dragged him along in the hopes of converting him. He seems like an openminded guy.”  
  
“Uh...” Reiner didn’t know quite how to respond to that. “I’m here with my boyfriend,” he said, even though he and Berwick had yet to make any sort of official declaration of relationship status. “But I’m rather curious as to what you’re doing here. Wouldn’t you rather go to a club where you might actually meet someone?”  
  
Ymir shrugged and stirred the swizzle stick in her cocktail—something clear with a lime wedge—and said, “Hey, it’s my last night in the city and I wanted to go someplace where I wouldn’t get hit on. Besides, I’m not looking to meet anybody. You are looking at an engaged woman.”  
  
“Oh really?” Reiner asked. “And your fiancé, what does he think about you hanging out in gay clubs?”  
  
“Well,” Ymir said archly. “ _She_ would be hanging out in this club with me if she wasn’t in the middle of shooting a movie back in LA.”  
  
“Ah,” said Reiner, nodding. “So you’re a lesbian then?”  
  
Ymir smirked. “I like to think of it as not being interested in the opposite sex, which is one thing you and I have in common.”  
  
“And the woman you’re going to marry is an actress? That’s pretty cool.”  
  
“Model turned actress. This movie will be her big break, she’s going to be a star. I’m a writer, by the way, based in LA where we live together. I’m only in Philly to do research for my next book.”  
  
Reiner was impressed. “I’m impressed. You seem so young, though, to be getting married.”  
  
“Twenty-four,” she said, as if that were a ripe old age. “So where is this boyfriend of yours, Reiner? Seems kind of douchey of him to leave you all by your lonesome, especially since you’re obviously new to the club scene?”  
  
“Does it really show that bad?” Reiner asked sheepishly.  
  
“You just don’t seem very comfortable,” said Ymir. “Or you didn’t until you started talking to me. You give off the impression that you’d rather be somewhere else.”

He’d rather be with Bertolt, back at the apartment. Annie could be there, too, just the three of them, passing around a bottle of something and laughing. The heat of Bertolt’s back against his as they propped each other up in their tipsy stupor. The sweet sound of Bertolt’s breathing as he fell asleep.  
  
The song changed to one that Reiner recognized.  
  
 _On the day that your mentality;  
Decides to try to catch up with your biology._  
  
The Smiths, I Want the One I Can’t Have. He remembered it from Mom and Dad’s old record collection that he and Annie and Bertolt used to listen to. He sighed. “How appropriate.”  
  
“Oh?” Ymir asked, cluing him in to the fact that he’d spoken aloud. Reiner’s cheeks flushed and Ymir nodded knowingly. “Ah. I see. You’re in love with Longshanks.” She didn’t even add “aren’t you?” to the end to make it a question, just stated it as a fact. And she was right, of course.  
  
“It’s... complicated.” He had no reason to deny it, but just giving a simple _yes_ seemed almost as dishonest.  
  
“All the best love stories are,” said Ymir. “I’ll have to tell you mine someday. So why is it complicated? Because he’s straight?”  
  
“Not just that. He’s in love with my sister.”  
  
“How very _Brideshead Revisited_ ,” said Ymir. “Does she love him?”  
  
“No. I mean yes, but not like that. You see, the three of us grew up together and right now all we have is each other. I have to protect them, especially Bertolt. He’s very vulnerable.”  
  
Ymir was nodding along like a therapist. “Is it possible that part of the reason you love him is because you see him as weak and requiring your protection? You strike me as the kind of guy who has to be strong for other people in order to feel needed. Does that sound right?”  
  
Reiner frowned. There were definitely shades of rightness in what she’d just said but he was not pleased to hear it. The idea that he loved Bertolt because he was weak had at most a tiny shard of truth to it, but the point that he based his self-worth largely on his ability to take care of others was much closer to a bullseye.  
  
When he didn’t say anything, Ymir added, “And maybe the reason your new boyfriend doesn’t make you totally happy is because _he’s_ the one guiding _you_ along.”  
  
“The reason he doesn’t make me totally happy is because he’s not Bertolt.” Reiner blurted it out impulsively and then clapped a hand over his mouth as if he could cram it back in. “Shit,” he grumbled.  
  
Morrissey sang:  
  
 _I want the one I can't have;  
And it's driving me mad;  
It's written all over my face._  
  
Then Ymir did something unexpected, reaching out and touching him on the shoulder. “It’s okay. Unrequited love is... We’ve all been there.”  
  
“Yeah, but you’ve already found somebody who loves you back.”  
  
“I’m luckier than most,” she said. “Hey, if you’re ever in the LA area, you should stop by and see us.” She reached into her back pocket and pulled out a business card, which she handed to Reiner.  
  
 **Ymir**  
 **Published Author**  
  
Below that was a phone number and a West Hollywood address.  
  
“You don’t have a last name?” Reiner asked curiously.  
  
“Don’t need one in my line of work. More people will buy your books if you sound mysterious.”  
  
Reiner slid the card into his pocket and smiled. “Thanks, Ymir.” He wasn’t just talking about the card, but he got the feeling she knew that.  
  
Still no sign of Berwick, he was starting to wonder if he really had been abandoned. Maybe this was Berwick’s way of dumping him without having to say anything. The thought made him sad, but probably not as sad as he should be. “Say, Ymir, would you like to dance with me?”  
  
She blinked at him like he’d just said the stupidest thing she’d ever heard. “Dance? With you?”  
  
“Sure, why not? You know I won’t try to cop a feel. And if I cop a feel by accident, you know I won’t enjoy it any more than you do.”  
  
Her look of bewilderment turned into a smirk. “You sure your boyfriend won’t mind?”  
  
Reiner snorted. “I don’t even know if the guy is coming back. For all I know the guy ditched me. But I’m allowed to have fun on my own, too.” He stood and extended his hand to Ymir. “So, shall we?”  
  
Taking his hand, she hopped down from her stool. “Let’s.”  
  
The current song was another fast one, vaguely familiar—Reiner thought it might be something Berwick had played for him before.  
  
 _Always crashing to the ground;_  
 _Always from the same height;_  
 _Always falling down._  
 _And if you start a fashion now;_  
 _Make me a believer;_  
 _The seas will part somehow._  
  
Ymir was a damn good dancer and even though Reiner wasn’t, she didn’t seem to mind. The absence of sexual tension between the two of them made him more relaxed and able to enjoy making a fool of himself. A part of him did wish that Berwick would finally return and insist on cutting in, but the rest of him was having too much fun to be bothered.  
  
Berwick at last reappeared just as the song was ending, arriving on the scene without an ounce of subtlety. “Yoooo! Reinbeck!” he hollered. “Reinholdt! Reinstein!” His voice was slurred and his gait sloppy and Reiner could tell that something was very wrong.  
  
“Is that the boyfriend?” asked Ymir warily. “Because I think he’s trashed. Unless that’s how he normally acts, in which case he's just an asshole.”  
  
“It’s not,” said Reiner, swooping to Berwick’s side to hold him up as he lurched. “Whoa, careful. Berwick, are you okay? How much did you drink?”  
  
“Drink?” Berwick blinked at him and smiled goofily. His pupils were blown. “I didn’t drink anything.” Then he squeezed Reiner’s neck with his elbow that was hooked around it and ground the knuckles of his other hand into Reiner’s scalp. “Noogie! And who’s this skinny dude you were dancing with, eh Reindeer? I leave ya for ten minutes and you’re already cheating?” His tone had shifted from playful to scathing mid-sentence.  
  
“Actually, I’m a woman,” Ymir said, with arms crossed just under her chest. “And you, Berwick, are high as a kite. What did you take? Meth? Molly? Acid?”  
  
“Yes!” was Berwick’s response, shouted. “You should try it, too, Reiner! I got a guy, hook you up! Maybe if you loosen up a bit you’ll come outta that fucking closet already!”  
  
While Reiner tried to hold Berwick still and keep him from wriggling away, Ymir sidled up and whispered in his ear. “He is seriously fucked up. I think you need to get him to a hospital or something.”  
  
“I know,” Reiner whispered back. “Will you help me?”  
  
Ymir sighed. “Well, I guess I have no choice since I’m involved now.” She affixed herself to Berwick’s other side and said, “Okay, let’s get you someplace safe.”  
  
Together, they guided Berwick towards the exit and hadn’t made it more than ten steps when he began to twist violently between them, screaming. “Let go of me! Stop trying to ruin everything! Don’t touch me you stupid dyke!” His arms helicoptered around him, catching Reiner in his side and Ymir in her stomach and causing both of them to stagger aside. Freed, he made a mad dash away from them, shoving his way through the crowd of dancing and chatting men to a chorus of “Hey!” and “Watch it, buddy!”  
  
“Fuck!” Reiner growled. “You okay, Ymir?” He knew he had to go after Berwick, but wasn’t about to leave her hurt.  
  
“I’m fine,” she said, wincing. “Did you see which way he went?”  
  
“Towards the stairs up to the mezzanine,” Reiner answered. “Left side.”  
  
“You go after him and I’ll take the stairs on the right to cut him off. We’ll trap him in the middle.”  
  
“Gotcha,” said Reiner and they took off dashing in opposite directions.  
  
Reiner’s heart was pounding wildly. _Shit_ , he thought. _Shit. Shit. Shit_. What had Berwick taken? How much? Where had he gotten it? So many fears flew through his mind as he took the stairs two at a time. Everything was intermittent flashes of dark and bright, an epileptic labyrinth of moving bodies and colored lights, the reek of cologne and perspiration clogging his lungs as he gasped for air.  
  
On the mezzanine level, he spotted Berwick, spinning around and waving his arms with abandon. Not wanting to startle him into running again, Reiner slowed his steps and approached cautiously, the way he would approach a wild animal he was trying to lure to him. But the moment Berwick’s eyes met his, he darted off again, this time towards the guardrail where the mezzanine overlooked the main floor.  
  
It happened too quickly to stop. Afterwards, Reiner would tell himself this over and over and over again, but as it was happening, he still thought he could make it in time. Berwick, in his delirium, leapt up onto the top of the guardrail, threw out his arms like wings as he roared, “Catch me if you can motherfuckers!” And jumped. He didn’t fly but fell bonelessly to the hard floor below. Nobody saw it in time to catch him.  
  
Panic erupted all around, shouts and screams overpowered the music, which was turned off a few minutes later and the house lights turned on.  
  
Reiner was looking over the guardrail at the spot where Berwick had jumped, so numb he couldn’t even tell if he was breathing. He could see Berwick’s body splayed on the floor, encircled by horrified gawkers. With the lights turned up, Reiner could even see the dark smear of blood where Berwick’s head had hit.  
  
Images of Roger Bailey impaled on a trophy flashed in his head like snapshots. No. Not again. Not another death. Not another body. And it was Berwick. His Berwick. Berwick who’d kissed him. Berwick who’d swallowed his seed and whose seed he’d swallowed.  
  
“Holy shit,” somebody said. It was Ymir, uttering softly from where she stood beside him.  
  
“What... do I do?” he asked without turning to look at her. He couldn’t take his eyes from Berwick’s pitiful, broken body. He wanted to go down there and cradle him. Kiss him one last time and say goodbye. Even if it hadn’t grown into love—it hadn’t even had time—he cared about Berwick a lot, and the thought of him being gone forever was a clawed hand raking down his chest. And what about Anselm? His younger brother was gone forever. And Berwick's parents, divorced or not, would be ruined by this. Their son, dead at twenty-three. And Atlas, poor little Atlas.  
  
He heard the muted wail of sirens coming through the walls and was seized by fresh terror.  
  
“They’re probably going to want to talk to you,” Ymir said.  
  
Reiner could barely breathe, but he managed to choke out a few staccato words. “I can’t. No police.” The police would need his name. His name would lead them to Arlington, to Roger, to Bertolt. If Reiner thought anything he said could be useful to them, he would’ve stayed and told it to them. But he knew nothing. And Berwick was dead. Oh god he was dead.  
  
“Okay,” said Ymir. “I trust you have a legit reason. Let’s get you out into some fresh air. You're shaking like a Mexican hairless.”  
  
She guided him with a hand on his back, down the stairs and out through a side door into the cold night.  
  
Reiner gulped in the air like he’d just surfaced from below water. “Thank you,” he said between gasps. “I just... I just...”  
  
“You don’t have to tell me,” Ymir said. “In fact, it’s probably better if you don’t. Are you good to go home or do you need me to take you somewhere?”  
  
“I’m fine.” He was actually far from fine, but that’s what he had to tell her.  
  
“Okay,” she said—she didn’t really sound like she believed him, but was being respectful of his answer. “Say hello to Longshanks for me.” A pause. And then, more somber, “I’m really sorry about your boyfriend. You have my card.”  
  
Thinking back on it, Reiner couldn’t say how he had made it back to the apartment in Warehouse 104. It couldn’t be muscle memory since he’d never been to Blue Moon before tonight. It was more like sleepwalking, moving through a hazy unreality and knowing where to go because his subconscious had created it all. He stepped into the apartment to find Bertolt wrapped around a book, such a bafflingly ordinary scene he could barely believe it.  
  
“Hey Reiner,” Bertolt said. “You’re home earlier than I expected. I won against Eren, if you can believe it. It was... Reiner, are you okay?”  
  
Reiner sat down on top of his sleeping bag and Bertolt hurried over to him. “Reiner, you’re super pale. Please say something. Tell me you’re okay.”  
  
Bertolt pressed a cool hand to his forehead, checking for a fever, and reality rushed back in like a returning tide. “Something bad happened,” Reiner said quietly. “We can’t stay here anymore.”  
  
“What do you mean?” Bertolt asked, brow knitted anxiously. “What happened?”  
  
“Somebody got hurt,” said Reiner. He couldn’t bring himself to say _died_ , couldn’t burden Bertolt with more death. “At that party I went to. Somebody got hurt. I had nothing to do with it but I’m afraid the police will try to find me for questioning because I knew the guy.” He was surprised at how much truth spilled out, like blood from a still fresh wound.  
  
“Oh my god!” Bertolt put his arms around Reiner’s shoulders and hugged him fiercely. “Was it that friend of yours? Is he going to be okay?”  
  
“Yes,” Reiner said. “And no. I don't think he's going to be okay.”  
  
Bertolt tightened his embrace and didn’t let go, whispered soothing, unclear words. The door opened with a small creak and Annie’s voice rang out.  
  
“Oh fuck! What happened? Bertl, is he okay?”  
  
“His friend got hurt at that party,” Bertolt said. “Badly, I think. Now he’s afraid the cops will want to talk to him about what happened.”  
  
She came to Reiner and knelt down in front of him, touched his knee with her small hand. “It’s going to be okay, bro. We’re here for you. And if we have to move on to a new city, we’ll be there for you.”  
  
“But, this place has become your home,” said Reiner. “What with your fights and dates, and Bertolt, with the library and Armin.”  
  
“That’s just how we pass the time,” said Bertolt. “Home is wherever the three of us are together.”  
  
The two of them were snuggled so close to him, supporting him from both sides. “I...” He started to say something but his voice cracked with encroaching sobs that he tried desperately to hold back. They were being so nice to him, so gentle. But they didn't know the whole story, the gay bar, the drugs, Berwick lying dead in the middle of the dance floor. They didn't know Berwick at all, not even his name.  
  
“It’s okay to cry,” said Annie. “For your friend.”  
  
“You don’t always have to be the strong one,” said Bertolt. “Let yourself be weak and we’ll be strong for you, Reiner. We love you.”  
  
For the first time since he was a baby, Reiner broke down and sobbed. And Bertolt and Annie held him all night long.  
  
The next morning they called Armin and told him they had to be moving on.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry sorry sorry for the opening sex scene fake out. I am such a bastard, aren't I? But I barely made any references to Always Sunny and for that I think I deserve some credit because I could have gone nuts with that.


End file.
